


Oh Night Divine

by Crickette



Series: Take Another Shot [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Brief Mention of injuries, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Follows Shutter Release but can be read alone, Happy Christmas, Hedgehog of Doom, I didn't kill anyone Kara, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mentions of past relationships of Mycroft Holmes, Mother Hen Mrs Hudson, Mycroft Loci, Mycroft Whump, Mystrade Advent Calendar 2017, Photographer John, Protective Greg, Protective Sherlock, Sherlock wants to be the plague, Shutter Release AU, Story complete, i can't tag, makes a minor appearance, mentions of torture, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 01:04:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13089198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crickette/pseuds/Crickette
Summary: Following the events of Shutter Release and Kiss of Fire, Mycroft Holmes takes a trip to New York that does not go remotely as planned. On his trip home memories of past Christmases remind him exactly what is important.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been a long time in the making. I have always wanted a bridge story that would take me from Shutter Release to Take Another Shot. Several failed attempts made me wonder if I would never get the story in my head out and on to paper. 
> 
> Thankfully lmirandas mentioned this wonderful Advent Calendar and a few ideas crashed into each other and the block that had been plaguing me finally lifted. So Take Another Shot is a go! Yay! 
> 
> Morgan, as usual you are the crossing guard of my life and all things I write down. Kara, thank you for listening to me agonize over this and for sending me mental happy thoughts. See no one died. It worked. (No one was going to anyway lol) Caprice, thank you for keeping my characters right. Lisa, thank you for being my friend and for telling me about cool things like this! Mottlemoth, thank you for letting me sneak into this lovely advent calendar. I can't thank you enough.

 

 

 Chapter One

 

 

 

**_Will you be home in time for your brothers mulled wine? - GL_ **

 

New York had been an utter failure. Mycroft glanced at the text from his husband for the hundredth time since Anthea had returned his phone to him. Had they ever spent an actual holiday together? The handful of times that Mycroft had been home over the last ten years of their marriage, Gregory would be pulled away for work, usually with his brother trailing behind him. Other times he was called away for backroom midnight meetings that lasted longer than he wished. Once, Greg had been stranded in Sussex with Mummy for the twelve days of Christmas. It appeared this year they might actually spend together. Mycroft chuckled weakly.

 

To say that Mycroft Holmes was in pain would be an understatement. His suit had not even a tiny crease out of place, but beneath the bespoke fabric was a wholly different tale. The red folder tucked into his briefcase listed all of the injuries he felt acutely. Mycroft wasn’t positive the man who stitched him up had even been a medical doctor for humans. But when needs must, you did what you had to do.

 

Another reason he detested legwork.

 

Mycroft had once considered the army doctor an oddity, one of many that seemed drawn to his brother. However, his opinion changed drastically after going over their plans for Moran and Moriarty. Not only was he meticulous, but it was John Watson who insisted on viable plan B through plan Z. He emphasized that Sebastian Moran was ruthless in his own right with a brilliant military mind. If he were teamed up with the elusive Professor Moriarty, who had an intellect that rivaled the Holmes brothers, then they would need to cover every eventuality.

 

Not that he was ever careless. Mycroft trained his mind to make plans that only needed a single attempt. Perhaps there was something in having a backup plan, however, if New York was a testament to anything. The sedan hit a bump that rocked the whole car, and Mycroft hissed in pain. Anthea looked up at him from under the fringe of her blonde bangs with concern. He studied her face and noted the elements of exhaustion that she was usually better at concealing.

 

“You should take something for the pain, Sir. We’re almost to the airstrip.” She spoke softly; he heard a slight rasp. They had both been kept in a basement for the better part of a week. It had been cold and damp. He was no doubt burning with fever, but ignored it and the pain as well.

 

“I am fine. I just wish the Yanks would fill their potholes in better. Bloody roads travel like swiss cheese.” He rewarded her concern with a genuine smile. She returned it and nodded. Anthea knew him well enough to know that he would not medicate at all until he was safely at home.

 

Her fingers paused their movements on her phone.

 

“Will you be texting Mr Lestrade? Or shall I inform him of our impending return tomorrow morning?”

 

“Yes please do so, thank you.” Mycroft turned his head and looked out the window. They were headed to a private airstrip that was in the middle of nowhere. Upstate New York had a lot of trees and not much else to look at. Snow covered everything with bright white, and Mycroft found himself unable to stop his eyes from closing.

 

When Sherlock was five years old, he expressed distress at being unable to organise his thoughts logically. Mycroft had the same problem at his age, and his Uncle had explained the Method of Loci to him. So Mycroft had passed the information onto his brother. Little Sherlock’s first memory storage had been a pirate ship, but he ran out of room quickly and built the mind palace instead. Mycroft mused for a moment, thinking of an old pirate ship floating in a lake behind a monster palace filled to the rafters with ways to dissolve people in acid.

 

As his mind began to sort the days of the trip, he felt the pain recede to a dull roar. He did not keep a mind palace like Sherlock. Instead, he opted to practice the teachings of the ancient Greeks. He took the term “memory lane” to heart. Everything that he needed to remember was kept orderly in a long straight road. The road divided between personal and government. The side for work, of course, was much denser and packed with buildings. The private side had considerably less, but it had more colour.

 

Mycroft came to a dark alleyway smashed between two buildings, like a black hole. CCTV cameras from the work side of the street were trained here constantly. This was the place Sherlock had his last overdose. It was near Christmas. Mummy had been out of the country and Mycroft, dismissing family duties, had figured Sherlock would amuse himself. He had been in a boring dinner party when he received the call from Sergent Lestrade that his brother was at St. Bart’s with a possible drug overdose.

 

Most of his Memory Lane was free of intense emotions, he doesn’t often care to remember trivial things, but here he recalled how he felt annoyance at first and embarrassment. Now, when he sees this alley in his mind, he felt only shame. He has tried to delete this moment in his life but cannot, because it was the first time he heard Gregory’s voice.

 

The lane is covered with cobbled stones that remind Mycroft of a Christmas in France when he was young and Sherlock just born. His father had taken him shopping to find his new sibling a present. Mycroft had thought the whole thing silly, a gift for a baby who had only achieved being conceived, much less born yet. Which in his opinion meant they weren’t doing much. Mummy had done all of the work as far as he could see. But Mycroft had gone with the hopes that his father would also be persuaded to get him the entire encyclopedia. If he had to, he would insist his new sibling would need it.

 

Mycroft smiled at the memory of one of his first significant manipulation attempts.

The next building was the horrid flat Gregory had lived in after his divorce. After long hours at work, he would often find himself outside of this dull, nondescript beige complex. Something about Gregory Silas Lestrade pulled at him. He had him investigated of course, and his ex-wife just to be sure. Mycroft had made a few calls and had the company that the ex-Mrs. Lestrade worked for transfer her to another location, as far away from London as possible. He would’ve sent her to the arctic circle if she was under his employ. He hadn’t examined his rage against a woman he had no dealings with, but he made sure she couldn’t change her mind and come crawling back to the silver-haired man who caught his attention so thoroughly.

 

Infatuation was nothing unfamiliar to Mycroft; he had once or twice considered himself in love with someone who didn’t share his last name. It was often dangerous and or fleeting to have ways for people to get at you. Sherlock had finally understood what that felt like, watching John and himself plan into the late hours at Baker Street. Gregory was used to it, but Sherlock only dealt with the aftermath of the crime, his puzzles were put together after the facts were wholly laid bare for his keen mind to piece them together.

 

Each time he had found himself outside of Gregory’s blocky flat he would stop himself. Memories of past relationships kept him inside of the car. He knew what the man looked like, how his voice sounded, but he craved so much more. Mummy had told him once that when she first met Arthur Holmes, it was instant chemistry, a chemical reaction that completely levelled everything she had believed in. For his mother, all she had wanted was to be like her father, a British intelligence officer who turned secret agent during the war. If she couldn’t do that she would devote her life to math and chemistry, things that were tangible and constant.

 

Fate had dealt her both together. Arthur Holmes had been a scientist, and together they created a powerful partnership that held up the British Government and pushed forward the interests of the nation to peaceful and prosperous conclusions. As a perk, his mother often enjoyed tea with her best friend, Lizbeth. Mummy still had connections - the Queen aside, and it was those that he had come to visit in New York. That and he had gone to see his own Elizabeth. She was retired but did assassins really retire? His first love, and his first hard lesson in giving away what you need the most to protect it. Why hadn’t he done that with Greg?

 

Before he could think on the matter further, Anthea’s hand was on his arm, and he pulled himself away from the mess he had made in his loci. He would straighten it out while they were in the air.

  



	2. Chapter Two

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Two

 

“Bloody arsehole,” Greg muttered under his breath and fished his pack of cigs out of the pocket of his coat. He and Mycroft had both agreed to quit, but with Mycroft gone and no word for days, he had fallen head first back into the habit. 

 

“Yes, I concur, Anderson is as you describe.” Sherlock stood close to him, attempting to kill himself with Greg’s second-hand smoke. 

 

“I wasn’t talking about Anderson; I was talking about your idiot brother.” Greg handed Sherlock his smoke and watched Sherlock’s face light up like a child as he took a long drag. They both looked around quickly for John, who was busy taking pictures of the corpse at the center of their investigation. 

 

“My brother  _ is  _ an idiot. Still no word?” Sherlock’s voice was soft and even, but Greg knew he was hiding concern. Not that either Holmes brother would ever admit to feeling anything other than annoyance for each other. 

 

“No. It’s been days. I hate when he leaves and I don’t know where he is.” Greg took his stick back and finished it, dropping it in the already filthy alleyway and stepping on it with more force than was necessary. 

 

Anderson--who was just back from a short suspension for not checking to make sure that a dead man was, in fact, deceased--wandered over when he heard his name mentioned. 

 

“Go away.” Sherlock pulled his phone out and sent a text message, his fingers moving almost as fast as Anthea. “He went to New York; I could tell by the umbrella he had when he came by to drop off files for John. Also, he packed light so he will probably be back soon.” 

 

Greg looked at Sherlock with surprise. “New York?” 

 

“Discussing personal matters now. I should file a complaint of nepotism on the job.” Anderson tapped his clipboard against his hand like a disapproving teacher. 

 

“Oi! I’m done here.” John spoke loudly. Anderson turned to him and smirked. 

 

“Give me the memory card, Watson; we have to make sure you only took pictures of the crime scene and not those ‘art’ pictures that people seem to like. Who cares about rain in the lamplight? I don’t get it.” Anderson held out his latex-gloved-hand and waited. 

 

“Yeah, you’re not in charge of me. But, in case you’re worried about me catching a picture of you snogging Donovan about fifteen minutes ago, behind that bin, you should be. I got it all on video on my phone. Which I already emailed to all the right people.” John waved his iPhone at Anderson but didn’t smile. The threat lay in his eyes, both Greg and Sherlock could see it there. 

 

That moment in the hallway when a previously dead man suddenly had John in a painful headlock, because Anderson had not done his job and checked for simple vitals, stripped Philip Anderson of any shred of the credibility and respect that John seemed to give to anyone at first glance. Since Anderson had returned from his suspension, it was clear that John Watson would hold a grudge against the tall unkempt forensic officer for quite a bit longer.

 

“You solved it didn’t you?” John asked Sherlock. He handed his bag to his partner and started to pack up his gear. “I know you were smoking; I have no idea why you think a handful of wine gums will disguise the horrible smell. Plus you only eat them when you’ve been sneaking cigarettes with Greg or your brother.” John’s fond smile, eyes crinkling around the edges belied the tone of his voice. 

 

“Of course I solved it, John. It was barely a three. The man climbed out on his fire escape and attempted to climb across to that balcony to remove the blinking fairy lights. He was an insomniac, and he believed they were keeping him awake. He slipped on the snow and fell.” Sherlock let the bag fall when John pulled the strap. 

 

“Brilliant, as usual. Takeaway? I want that lamb Rista from that place by New Scotland Yard. We drop this stuff off and I can sign off for my hols, then we go home and, eat spicy Indian food.” He paused and licked his lips. Sherlock watched his pink tongue slide across his bottom slightly chapped lip. “I think we need at least twelve hours in bed before I am ready to chase you, chasing some criminal all over London.” John pulled his leather gloves over his cold red hands. Their breath was starting to come out in puffs of white smoke. 

 

The notes of God Save The Queen broke the silence and Greg moved faster than he had in days as he dug his phone from his pocket. 

 

“Oh thank god.” He exhaled, smiled and closed his eyes. The relief on his face just highlighted how exhausted he looked, the circles under his eyes and his hair a messy mop of silver and grey.  

 

“Is it my idiot brother?” Sherlock looked at his phone as if he was expecting something. 

 

“No, it’s Anthea, who is almost as good. He’s probably busy with work.” Greg took another deep breath and stood up straighter. “So we’re done here? I want to get home. Myc will be back tomorrow morning.” 

 

Sherlock looked at the ground and frowned. He lifted his cell phone up and gazed at it, ignoring the two men standing in front of him. 

 

“Why don’t you come home with us? Dinner and one of those stupid Christmas movies that John insists we watch. Maybe if you’re there, he won’t pick out a dreadful musical.” Sherlock ran his thumb over his screen as if to remove some of the snow that had just begun to fall. 

 

“Um? Yeah, I can eat. I’ll meet you gents at Baker Street. You know what I want anyway.” Greg laughed, a little uneasy, still surprised that Sherlock had invited him over. 

 

“John, give me the gear. I’ll take it with me and check it in with Margaret.” Greg held his hand out. John wasted no time handing the bag over. It was common knowledge that Margaret had the hots for John, but given that John was gay and about forty years younger than her, he tried to avoid her at all costs. 

 

“Ta. I was not looking forward to her pinching my arse or asking me if I’m sure I’m gay.” 

 

“She touches you?” Sherlock looked at Johns arse. 

 

“Yeah you know, just a little pinch, kinda like an old Auntie or Granny,” John said, laughing at Sherlock’s facial expression. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed with possessiveness. 

 

“My grandmother never pinched my buttocks,” Sherlock spoke as if he was scandalised by the idea of bands of roaming grandmothers pinching the rears of their grandchildren. 

 

“C’mon let’s go get food. I am starving.” John tugged Sherlock by the sleeve of his Belstaff. “See you at Baker Street, Greg!” John called back over his shoulder. 

 

They went out onto the snow-crusted sidewalk. The snow was starting to stick, but  it was still the grey slush that crunched under their shoes. Tomorrow morning it would be thicker and slicker. 

 

Sherlock hailed a cab with his usual air of magic. They both climbed inside and enjoyed the little heat that reached the back. John told the man where to go and sat back and looked at Sherlock. His face was grave, in the darkness, highlighted by the streetlamps. 

 

“You want to tell me what that was all about? We had plans for tonight that didn’t involve Christmas movies.” John laid his hand on Sherlock’s thigh and waited. 

 

“Mummy responded to my text. Mycroft was on a mission in New York, and it went bad. I don’t have details as of yet; mummy is sorting it all out. Mycroft only has Anthea text Lestrade when he is unable. Usually emotionally or physically impaired.” 

 

“Was he working on the MorMor thing?” 

 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste for the nickname John had created. 

 

“Most likely. I can’t determine anything else he would go out into the field personally for.” 

 

“Fuck. No matter how many times I look at this, there just isn’t a plan that doesn’t sound like a suicide mission.” 

 

Sherlock squeezed John's hand. 

 

“Don’t go. We’ll wait for it to happen in London. That is ultimately Moriarty’s end game. London.” 

 

“No, Moran was dealing guns, and those guns are being used to kill soldiers. I can’t just let that happen when I can help stop it.” John flipped his hand over and wove his fingers with Sherlocks. 

 

“You’re not a doctor or a soldier any longer, John. You’re a forensic photographer with a collection of records and bad taste in jumpers.” 

 

“I could take you out of that coat, and stick you in the middle of nowhere and you’d still be you,” John said fondly. He ran his thumb across the palm of Sherlock’s hand. 

 

“Your point? My brain has nothing to do with my location.” 

 

“Exactly. Look there’s the Indian place. You wait in the cab, I’ll run in. Do you want your usual? The keema?” John sat up waiting for the cab to stop at the kerb. 

 

“What? Yes, and the potato one. Get the butter chicken and samosas for Gwen.” Sherlock fidgeted, “we aren’t done talking about this John.” 

 

“I know, love. But it’s almost Christmas. Let’s call a truce, and you can pick this up sometime around your birthday.” John leant over and kissed Sherlock’s cheek. John’s lips were so much warmer than Sherlock’s skin, it made him shiver a little. “You can say it’s my Christmas present okay?” 

 

“Why? I planned to give you a Christmas blowjob. Isn’t that a good present?” Sherlock said it loudly, the driver looking sharply in the rearview mirror. She caught John’s eye and smiled and nodded. John felt his cheeks heat up instantly and was grateful that he was dashing in for food. 

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the driver,“I got him a legally registered handgun as well as several albums for his collection,” Sherlock spoke to the driver matter of factly. The need to shed the cloak of being a highly functional sociopath made him speak up. He wanted her to know that he was considerate to his partner. 

 

“Oh I don’t know lovey, I think he’d rather have the blowjob.” 

 

Sherlock looked up at her and smiled, then blushed and looked down at his phone. He sent another text to his mother and one to Anthea. Bad things were coming and he pushed them into the holding room of his mind palace to be reviewed later. 

 


	3. Chapter Three

 

 

 

Chapter Three

 

 

 

“Liz… Lizzy, I’m sorry.” Mycroft swam toward consciousness. He didn’t understand why he was in the Thames; it was so cold. 

 

“Sir, it’s Anthea. Wake up, sir.” Anthea’s crisp British tone was nothing like Elizabeth’s sultry accent that rounded her consonants and made even ordering lunch sound erotic. 

 

“Why is it so bloody cold?” Finally, his eyes opened, and the light from overhead cabin punched into his retinas like needles. 

 

“You’re not cold, sir; you’re burning up with fever. Probably a secondary infection. I’ve started an IV of antibiotics. I started one for myself too. A physician will be waiting for you when we land.” 

 

“Are you unwell?” He looked at her as carefully as he could. His brain seemed to be surrounded by cotton or that salt water taffy that Gregory loved when they went to the Brighton Pier. The confection had been sticky and delicious when Greg had fed him pieces in bed later that night. He could not enjoy peppermint now without wishing it was that taffy, and they were in bed. 

 

“Sir, you aren’t in bed with Mr Lestrade. Please focus over here. Drink this.” Anthea held a cup of tea to his lips, and he took a drink. His throat felt dry, but the tea didn’t help. 

 

“Take us to Baker Street. No one must know about this.” He wrapped his hand around her wrist and  tried to grip it as hard as he could but his strength was failing. 

 

“Alright sir, rest. We’ll be home soon.” 

 

A cold flannel ran across Mycroft’s forehead, and he was back in his memories. His mother did the same thing once when he was six and had the gall to catch the chicken pox from the kids next door. 

 

He could smell his mother’s perfume, something floral and light. Somewhere Sherlock was crying, demanding attention. That wasn’t right; Sherlock wasn’t born yet. 

 

“It’s a mess. It’s a goddamn bloody mess.” Mycroft swore aloud. He struggled briefly, but Anthea soothed him. 

 

“Shh, you’re ruining this waistcoat, sir. You hate that.” 

 

“Too right I do.” Mycroft smiled, or tried to. His face didn’t seem to want to work. “Did I get Greg a Christmas present, Kara?” He felt fear, irrational and mind scattering. What would happen if he forgot to get his beloved a present? 

 

“Yes, sir, a jukebox for his media room. No using the real name right? Shhh.” 

 

Muffled voices came and went. Anthea speaking to others from underwater. Mycroft stopped trying to control how his brain worked. He forced himself to melt into the seat. It pained his wounds, but as they flared up, they also levelled off to a minor distraction. 

 

Mycroft stood at the path of his loci that would take him to Gregory’s lighthouse. People in his life that mattered had little buildings in his memory, but his husband had a tower. It built itself the moment he laid eyes on the man. 

 

***

  
  


The memory played out like a movie. Mycroft found himself sitting on the silly orange beach chair they had located in Brighton and watched across the dusky twilight sky as the vision of the first time he saw Gregory Lestrade unfolded. 

 

Sherlock had returned from rehab even more hateful and bitter towards Mycroft. It had been a whole year with the Christmas anniversary only a week away. That year he made sure that he and Sherlock would be visiting the Holmes manor for a traditional holiday. 

 

He tried to keep eyes on Sherlock at all times, but even with that, he worried constantly. That night he was supposed to be at the Yard’s Christmas party. Newly-made Detective Lestrade had invited him, and Sherlock had decided to go. Unusual, but Mycroft had agreed that unusual fit the officer perfectly. 

 

During the party, a body had been found, and they went to investigate it. Sherlock deduced in moments that the murderer was still at the scene and took off after him. He ended up being beaten to a bloody pulp. Greg finally caught up and knocked out the suspect before he could kill Sherlock. 

 

Mycroft had been made aware of the situation and was already en route when Gregory had phoned him. He ignored the call and met them at the hospital instead. One look into those dark chocolate brown eyes and he was utterly lost. He wanted to know what those eyes looked like dilated with pleasure or filled with mirth from laughing. He wanted those eyes looking into his own grey eyes each morning over coffee and croissants in bed. It felt like electricity or a sonic boom. His life was ruined and rebuilt from the very rubble of his memory lane. At that moment Greg became a beacon, a lighthouse in the vast darkness that was Mycroft’s life. The shady dealings and the back rooms that he operated so smoothly. Each transaction, he wondered if he added a link to the chains that would bind his soul to hell. A Jacob Marley kind of hell. 

 

Mycroft flinched at the Dickens reference. He was a very sick man. It was too close to Christmas to be inviting a haunting from the past. A brief image of Liam Hutchinson in his work uniform coming home with leftovers. A flicker across the sky of their flat. It had been close to Oxford, and it had been shabby, but Mycroft secretly loved it. While he attended classes, Liam worked as a waiter. The window over the kitchen sink had little pots of herbs that he used when he cooked. He wanted to be a famous chef one day. 

 

He was a famous chef. His mother had offered him a large sum of money to leave Mycroft and pursue his dreams by attending Le Cordon Bleu in France. Judging by the smug look on his mother's face it hadn’t taken much to convince him. Mycroft had arrived home one day, and the herbs had been chucked into the trash. Simone Holmes had hired a cleaning crew to clean the flat thoroughly. 

 

Mycroft waved a hand at the sky, and it went back to #23a393. His memory lane supplied the hex colour code but nothing else. What was the name of that colour? A flash of lightning filled the air, and the sudden crash of thunder followed it. Black storm clouds filled the sky, slowly crawling towards the shore where Mycroft sat. 

 

This was bad. Mycroft could feel snowflakes in the air, and that had nothing to do with his mind. Sounds of bricks raining down against the cobblestones of his memory rang out loudly. 

 

“I am dying.” Mycroft laughed out loud at the idea of it. After all of that torture to die from a fever? The great Iceman was defrosting literally. 

 

“The commonwealth weeps.” Another guffaw of laughter. 

 

Bright white light filled the sky, lighting up the dark clouds. It was the lighthouse. It didn’t act like a regular beacon. Instead, it just kept its blazing sun like rays in one spot. 

 

Another Christmas, a party they had attended for his work had been dull, and Greg had to stand alone for most of it. He was upset, and Mycroft wondered if the stack of pants and vests that had collected at his house would go into the trash as the potted herbs had once. 

 

“You know it is insulting just to leave me standing there like a jackass all night, Myc.” Greg’s voice had sounded so flat. 

 

“I love you, and I wish to marry you.” 

 

“I knew you’d say that, and I know it’s your job. But. Wait. What the absolute fuck was that?” Greg stopped speaking quickly, his mouth shutting with enough force that Mycroft heard his teeth click. He unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to look Mycroft directly in the face. 

 

“Did you just declare your _ love _ for me and ask me to  _ marry you _ ?” 

 

“Yes, I did. What happened tonight will happen again. I have the kind of life that should honestly be lived alone. I know you are upset, it is pronounced. You have several cues that I noticed all night. I felt blinding rage Gregory when that woman spoke to you. She touched your arm here.” Mycroft put his hand on the spot. He imagined he could feel her print on Greg’s forearm. A residual heat left there. 

 

“You’re jealous? You watched me all night?” Greg smiled his boyish smile that melted the centre of Mycroft's chest. 

 

“I watch you whenever I am with you. I always want my eyes on you.” The emotion felt too much like agony and Mycroft looked out the window. He slipped his hand into his inner coat pocket and removed a small round silver ring holder. “I bought this for you as a gift for Christmas. I thought it would be just a ring, but I realised when I picked it out, it was not a pinky ring. It meant more. I want you to be my husband.” 

 

“ _ Really _ ?” The disbelief bled into Greg’s voice. 

 

“We both have jobs that could end our lives at any moment. I wish to marry you, or form a civil partnership, whatever they call it.” He waved his hand. It was ridiculous that they could not be married, but Mycroft would fix that. They would have a civil partnership now, and as soon as he could slip that same-sex marriage act into play, he would marry this fantastic man beside him. 

 

Gregory said nothing; he just stared at Mycroft with conflicting emotions warring in those brown eyes. 

 

“Please say yes. I don’t want to be injured and have to rely on Sherlock for my care. You’ll be doing a public service.” Mycroft laughed then, and Gregory blinked several times at him. 

 

“You just made a joke,” Greg muttered. Suddenly Mycroft had a full grown man straddling his lap and kissing him. 

 

“Yes, I will save you from your brother.” He kissed him and nibbled Mycroft's bottom lip. “It’s so fucking hot that you were jealous. It shouldn’t be, but oh it was so hot that look on your face.” 

 

“I will never want anyone else, Gregory; you are everything I want. I will not share you, or forget you. You are the love of my life. I didn’t have a life until I loved you.” 

 

“Jesus, we had better be close to your house because if we aren’t, I’m going to fuck you in this backseat like we’re a couple of teenagers.” 

 

“I never did that as a teenager,” Mycroft said seriously. 

 

Greg laughed and leant over to press the intercom button. 

 

“Yes, sir?” The driver’s voice instantly answered 

 

“Take the long way home,” Greg replied. 

 

“Sir? We’re about five minutes from Mr Holmes’s residence.” 

 

“I don’t care, drive and don’t stop driving until I tell you to take us home. I have a few things to show the Government.” Greg didn’t wait for an answer and let go of the button. “You don’t have camera’s back here do you?” 

 

“Of course not, just audio.” 

 

“Audio? I can work with that.” 

  
  


Mycroft remembered that audio very well. The original was currently in a safe in his home office. 

  
  



	4. Chapter Four

 

 

 

Chapter Four

 

 

  
  


Greg sat at the kitchen table at 221B Baker Street, his hands flat on the surface, his brain swirling with information that he tried his best to sort. He didn’t have a mind palace or memory trick like the Holmes brothers. He did have a very organised mind; he was a great detective. He followed his intuition more often than he should perhaps, but it had never really dealt him a lousy hand until that night. 

 

The night of John’s art gallery opening he knew that this whole thing they were embarking on was a colossally bad idea. The relatively peaceful life that they had crafted together seemed to be unravelling. This trip to New York that he wasn't aware of and now he was waiting for Mycroft to get here not knowing what condition he would be in. 

 

Anthea had called John last night in the middle of ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ and chaos erupted. 

 

It seemed for the rest of the night that people were coming and going, bringing different things into the cluttered flat. The worst thing was sitting in front of him right now. A portable top-of-the-line AED. Greg’s mind stuttered every time his eyes glanced across the letters and the shape of a red heart on the front. It had a bolt of lightning across it, but to Greg, it looked like a broken heart. 

 

“Jesus Myc what happened to you?” He asked aloud to the empty kitchen. 

 

He wore a t-shirt and jeans that one of the minions had brought from the house. After the first call, John had swung into action. It was nothing like anything Greg had seen from the man. Sherlock appeared as stunned as he felt. The both of them just stayed out of the way as John directed Mycroft’s people and double checked all the equipment they brought. Mrs Hudson had woken up, and she was currently baking enough Christmas biscuits to feed an army. 

 

Grey light streamed into the front windows. The plane had landed, and they were on their way. Mycroft had insisted on coming here, not wanting anyone to know how bad off he was. 

 

“He’ll be okay. He has a lot to live for.” Sherlock’s voice broke through the mad rush of thoughts in Greg’s brain. 

 

“What?” He said sharply and regretted it immediately. 

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Greg’s contrite expression. “My brother would not leave you. He’s a huge fool to sentiment, and he would probably see it as bad form to leave you before retirement.” 

 

“Is this you trying to be reassuring?” Greg sat back in the chair his eyes leaving the AED to look at his brother-in-law. He was surprised to see Sherlock wearing jeans and one of John’s band t-shirts. Greg was positive Sherlock had never listened to Black Flag once in his entire life. His hair was a mess; no one had slept all night with everything going on in the flat. 

 

“John had some suggestions, but you’re married to my brother sothe usual platitudes would be useless I thought.” 

 

“Thank you; it was helpful.” Greg tried to smile, but his face felt broken. Sherlock placed a hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. 

 

A sudden commotion erupted downstairs, the door banged against the wall, and the sound echoed up the stairs and through Greg’s heart. He didn’t know if he should wait, or run down the stairs. His feet were frozen to the spot in the damn kitchen with Sherlock inching closer to him, in case he decided to flee. 

 

Loud voices, John the loudest of them all inched closer to the door of the flat. 

 

“Why aren’t we taking him to a hospital? Jesus Christ people. When was he last conscious? Just IV fluids and antibiotics? The ones I ordered? Good. Anthea, you look like shite. I got this, go see Hudders, I’ll be down to get you next.” 

 

They couldn’t hear any of the responses, but Greg’s brain stuck on the fact John was asking about the last time his husband had been aware. At last, his feet moved, and he was at the door wrenching it open. 

 

John and one of the minions were carrying Mycroft. Each of them had a limp arm draped across their shoulders, and Greg watched with a sick twist in his stomach as Myc’s head rolled. He couldn’t stop himself, his hands found Mycroft's chest, and he took over for John, who, being shorter, was struggling with how awkward it was to drag the dead weight. 

 

“Take him to our room and lay him down on the bed. Greg, I need you to undress him to his pants. Anthea said he was hurt; I need to see the injuries.” 

 

They dragged him down the narrow hallway and settled him on the bed. Greg didn’t notice when the other man left the room, all he could see was the bright red bloom across Mycroft’s cheeks, and how pale he was otherwise. His faint freckles that Greg loved to kiss stood out in stark relief in the pallor of his face. His hair was drenched with sweat and curling at the ends. His husband would be so upset that anyone saw him this dishevelled, his suit covered in wrinkles and creases. Greg would just throw this suit away and never speak of it. 

 

He removed the suit jacket and saw a stain of tea on Mycroft’s white shirt. That broke Greg’s heart. That small light brown splash, so out of place on anything of his husbands. 

 

Tears started to flow silently but he blinked them away without acknowledging them. Greg took off his love’s shoes, letting them fall to the floor where he kicked them under the bed out of the way. Mycroft didn’t even smell like himself, the usual notes of sandalwood and vanilla were gone. When they had married, Mycroft had insisted that his finances were also Greg’s. So to be a smartarse for Christmas, he had gone out and purchased Clive Christian No. 1, which the salesperson swore was the most expensive men’s cologne in the world. Whatever it was, it made Greg want to snuggle Mycroft and fuck his brains out at the same time. Ever since the first time, Mycroft always wore it, and they would celebrate the opening of a new bottle in bed. 

 

Right now Mycroft smelt of sickness, sweat and the stale air of being on a plane for too many hours. The waistcoat refused to come off quickly, Mycroft made a noise and Greg gentled his movements. There was an open medical kit on the nightstand, and in it, he spotted scissors, so he began to cut the fabric to remove it without having to move him. Brown dried spots of blood had appeared as he lifted the waistcoat from Mycroft’s prone body. 

 

John entered the room on silent feet. He hissed when he saw the shirt. 

 

“Keep cutting it off. Remove that white shirt; I need to see skin, does he wear a vest too?” 

 

“Yes, but he’s not wearing one now. What the fuck happened?” 

 

“I don’t know; I need to see him, Anthea said they were held for three days. He was tortured for most of those days. No food or water. His feet got it the worst she said. She is in bad shape too. Mycroft did Sherlock’s trick of pissing everyone else off, so they took it out on him and left her mostly alone. She has a few infected cuts and some bruising. I am pretty sure they were stitched up by an unlicensed veterinarian.” 

 

Greg went back to cutting Mycroft’s shirt off carefully, and John slowly peeled the dark black socks from the prone man’s body. 

 

“Fuck.” John made a noise and stood back. “Don’t look at this, Greg. Listen, you should go outside, and I’ll handle this. Anthea had nurses sent here. However bad this looks, it will look worse when you close your eyes okay? Trust me.” 

 

Greg shook his head. He was torn between needing to stay, and yet he didn’t want to see anything that made John make that noise. He continued to cut carefully, pulling a sleeve off and being stunned at the multiple colours that bloomed across the bare skin. It reminded him of the hues of a peacock feather, blues, greens and purples. 

 

“Just leave for a few minutes so that I can check him over. Once I get him comfortable, we can wait together for him to wake up.” John motioned to someone who stood behind Greg. Sherlock came forward and wrapped an arm around Greg’s shoulders. 

 

“Come on, Gregory, I will tell you about the time Mycroft almost got arrested for being drunk in public. He was home for holidays, and it is most amusing.” Sherlock spoke softly and fondly. 

 

“Drunk in public?” Greg looked up at his brother-in-law in disbelief. 

 

“Not really, I drugged him. It was an experiment. I was pleased with the result. That is until mummy took my chemistry set away. I was only six; it was a very unjust punishment.” 

 

Sherlock noted John’s soft smile at his sleeping patient as he heard Greg's snort of surprised laughter. 

 

John fussed them from the room and Sherlock heard him speaking to his brother quietly.

 

"Alright Mycroft Holmes, let's see what we have here shall we? I promise I'll be careful." John began to finish the task of undressing him and Sherlock spared a moment of wonder that his brother was able to board the plane on his own steam. 

 

***

 

Sherlock knew it had been three hours and forty-five minutes since they had left John alone with his brother, but it felt like years as they sat in the sitting room in silence. Greg had cried freely for the first few minutes and finally had just stared at the door of the bedroom. 

 

Anthea came up at some point, her arm in a sling. She looked exhausted and frazzled. She wore an oversized jumper and leggings. Sherlock had only ever seen her dressed by Mycroft standards. Here now, with her hair pulled up into a messy bun and casual clothes she looked like a teenager. No one spoke. She took a spot next to Greg on the couch and fell asleep. Greg used the orange shock blanket to cover her up with, and they waited. 

 

Mrs Hudson drifted up with a tea tray, and Sherlock rushed to help her. The restless energy thrumming in his body needed  an outlet. Sherlock delivered the cups of tea to Greg and Anthea and ghosted back to the kitchen to stand with Hudders, and they both listened at the door. John and a nurse were speaking back and forth. 

 

The floor creaked. They both looked at each other with mild panic and reached for the same scone off the tray to hide that they were eavesdropping. The door swung open, and the nurse walked out with her arms filled with trash. She wore the usual Mycroft Holmes minion uniform of all black. 

 

John looked at Sherlock and Mrs Hudson standing close together holding the same scone and looking guilty.

 

"Where's Greg?" He asked softly. 

 

"Here." Greg had stood as if shot from a canon when the door had opened. 

 

“He’s going to be fine, alright? Don’t shake the bed too much, but you can sleep next to him. He has some bruised ribs, but nothing bleeding internally. They spared his face and neck, thank god.” John paused to make sure Gregory was listening to him and not trying to drift into the bedroom. “His feet are the worst, they took some sort of metal rod to them, but I can’t determine if anything is broken here. The swelling is bad, so he needs to stay off his feet for at least a week.”

 

“Fucking hell.” Gregory ran his right hand through his hair and looked at his own feet. Mrs Hudson let go of the scone. Sherlock hugged her to him and let her go. 

 

“Once the swelling is down we can sneak him into a clinic and get x-rays done. He has a few cuts from the handcuffs and rope burns on his elbows from being tied back. The infection isn’t serious and the fever is probably from being in a damp basement without food or water. The IV stays in for now.” John let his features soften and pulled Greg to him and hugged him.

 

"C'mon Greg, you too Sherlock. Mrs Hudson, how's Anthea?" 

 

Mrs Hudson perked up at her name and smiled fondly at John. 

 

"I gave her the pills you told me to give her and made her eat a little something. Poor thing is asleep on the couch under that hideous orange blanket. You should let me crochet you boys something more attractive." 

 

"That would be lovely, Mrs Hudson. I think we're all good here for the night. I'm going to try to get Sherlock to sleep for longer than five minutes. Greg will probably kip in here with Mycroft." 

 

"Just call down if you need me, dear." She gave John a motherly hug and looked in on the scene inside the bedroom. Sherlock stood at the foot of the bed, and Greg knelt on the floor, both his hands holding Mycroft's. 

 

John watched her as she fussed away, her old, well-worn hands twisting a handkerchief. He took a bite of one of the scones and chewed it quickly; they could all use some sleep and food. Had they even eaten since last night? 

 

"It's half-eight. We need to order food." No one moved, John patted his jeans looking for his phone, but didn’t find it. 

 

"I'm on it. Angelo will be dropping off food in thirty.” Anthea had moved off the couch like a ninja. 

 

"You should just lay down on the couch and get some sleep." John wanted to fuss but didn't want her to kick his arse which he knew was always a possibility. 

 

"I am not going to sleep here. I know what kind of things you men do on this couch, and I would rather sleep in my bed. Thank you for taking care of us, he wouldn't allow me to take him to the hospital." 

 

"Hardheaded thy name is Holmes. One of the minions is seeing you home?" John checked her over with the sharp eye of a doctor, looking for anything he might've missed.

 

"Yes. I'll be back tomorrow. Goodnight, Dr Watson." 

 

John watched her slowly thread down the stairs. She popped in to say goodnight to Mrs Hudson, and a guard in black opened the door. She went out into the flurry of snow. Angelo was a saint for braving this weather only a few short days before Christmas.

 

"Geoff is already asleep. My brother also seems to be sleeping better." Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist and rested his head on his uninjured shoulder. 

 

"You were good today." John covered Sherlock's hands with his own. "Should we just stand here and wait for a mo? I am sure Angelo will be here the second we sit down." 

 

"I think we should rethink the whole mission." Sherlock's voice was directly against John's ear. "Obviously there are more moles than just the one Mycroft knows about." 

 

"Well, we were planning on leaving at the end of January. We should still proceed. Your brother should be back on his feet by then." 

 

"I don't like this, John." 

 

"Me either, love, but we have to do it anyway." 

 

"I'm going to smoke while you're away." Sherlock bit John's ear and huffed a sigh. 

 

"I know. You never fool me." 

 

The door down the stairs swung wide, and Angelo came in covered in freshly fallen snow. He had two bottles of wine and a broad happy smile. Behind him came his son who carried the rest of the bags. 

 

"My friends!! Happy Christmas!!" Angelo's voice was low but carried up the stairs along with the mouthwatering aromas of pasta and sauces. 

 

“Come in, -- come in! And know me better, man! I am the Ghost of Christmas Present. Look upon me! You have never seen the like of me before!” John made his voice sound more commanding and loud, a shade of Captain Watson showing itself. 

 

Angelo laughed, and Sherlock made a noise that John considered a laugh. 

 

As long as Sherlock still made those noises, he would consider everything else a win. He felt as if he was heading into war and while that scared him nearly to death, he also felt the thrill of going into battle. John thought he would never feel that again. 

 


	5. Chapter Five

 

 

 

Chapter Five

 

 

 

Mycroft watched as Greg opened his last present. They had foregone the tradition of opening gifts in the formal sitting room next to the Christmas tree in favour of Gregory’s media room. The jukebox had been a considerable success, as his husband could not seem to stop selecting songs to play and tell amusing stories about where and what he was doing when he first heard it. 

 

“I love this, Choux, thank you!” Greg held up the hand tooled leather messenger bag and smiled. 

 

“I am glad; I thought it would suit you. I detest that bag you usually use to carry your paperwork to and from work.” Mycroft ran his fingers over the gold cufflinks that Greg had given him. Each little disk was imprinted with his fingerprint. A romantic, if not possessive gesture he admired. He wanted everyone to know that he was connected to Gregory Lestrade-Holmes for life. His eyes looked over the fireplace at the photograph that John had taken of them. Each time he saw it, he admired it more. 

 

“We should have a professional portrait done, Gregory.” 

 

“Um, sure? I’m game.” Those four words summed up their marriage perfectly. 

 

The doorbell rang downstairs, and Mycroft moved as if he was going to stand. 

 

“Don’t you dare. John said to stay off your feet for another few days or else he would put them in casts to keep you down. You’re bloody lucky nothing was broken. Metal pipe to the soles of your feet. Jesus.” 

 

“My arse is numb I was just shifting, stop hovering, husband.” Mycroft muttered darkly. 

 

“I can bend you over my knee and spank the feeling back into those cheeks, Choux, if you wish.” Greg waggled his eyebrows at Mycroft. 

 

“Well, I guess we came at a bad time.” John stood in the doorway with Sherlock and Anthea, his arms filled with gifts and Sherlock’s face frozen in a look of alarm. 

 

“Please come in and ignore my husband,” Mycroft motioned with his hand for them to take a seat. He felt naked wearing only his best pyjamas and dressing gown. Even with the lap blanket tucked around his legs. 

 

Anthea wore jeans and a long jumper, her hair pulled back from her face. Nothing at all like she usually wore, but Mycroft supposed her back still pained her. They had used a whip on her to make him talk. Mycroft focused again on the picture over the mantel and ignored the pressing pain of memories. 

 

“I only stopped off to drop off a gift, sir.” Anthea pushed past the two men in her way and came to the chair that Mycroft was sitting in. She knelt down and handed him a gold wrapped box. He couldn’t deduce what it was. 

 

“Thank you, my dear, you really shouldn’t have.” He patted her hand. Greg came over holding a small box. Mycroft looked at it sharply. Usually, he just gave a tremendous monetary Christmas bonus, but this year Gregory had picked out a gift as well. 

 

“I went and got this for you myself. I know you like stars and stuff so..” 

 

Mycroft could tell that Gregory felt embarrassed by his gift. Anthea just gave him a small smile and ripped the red wrapping. Under the paper was a Harrod’s jewellery box. She thumbed the snap, and there was a gold bracelet with stars. A beautiful cuff with other little black and white stones. 

 

“Wow, thank you Mr Lestrade. It’s beautiful.” She immediately slipped it on and smiled much brighter at both of them. 

 

“Thank you for getting him out. I just can’t thank you enough, you know?” Greg rushed towards Anthea and hugged her and quickly let her go. “Sorry. I just…” 

 

Mycroft loved that Greg blushed. It suited him when it was winter, and he didn’t have his usual sunkissed tan. 

 

“Well, I am off. Thank you again, Mr Holmes and Mr Lestrade.” She leant forward and kissed Mycroft on his cheek. “I’m now sorry about the game, sir, it was meant as a joke. Sherlock is going to love it.” She pulled back, and Mycroft saw a twinkle in her eyes. 

 

“Be off with you. I should make you stay and referee.” He laughed, and she joined him. She checked her phone and started to text with one hand as she said her goodbyes. She waved at John and shot one last smile at Greg; she made sure to shake her wrist at him with the bracelet catching the light from the window. 

 

“That was very nice of you, Gregory.” Mycroft watched her slip out the door and down the hallway. One of the few people who could get past Lawrence. 

 

“She was very nice and brought you home, Choux.” He picked up the box that Anthea had left and ripped the paper. “Oh shite, I heard about this game Myc, a bunch of guys at work play it. You’re supposed to mastermind yourself out of a plague epidemic.” Greg held the box up to show it to the rest of the room. 

 

Sherlock’s eyes lit up, and he stopped pre-programing the jukebox to only play classical music to snatch the box from Greg. 

 

“I wish to be the plague.” Sherlock ripped the plastic cling off the box. 

 

“I don’t think you can be the plague, Sherlock,” John replied, though he also looked eager to play. 

 

“This is war, Mycroft. I am going to get her back for this.” Greg leant over to kiss Mycroft’s cheek. 

 

Mycroft only chuckled softly, watching his brother ignore the instructions and insist he was the germs themselves. Naturally, he would win. 

 

Gregory brought out a card table he used for poker night on the rare occasions he had friends over, and they set up the game close to Mycroft so he would not have to move. He felt his phone vibrate and he checked it. 

 

**_M was behind your kidnapping. The proof is being sent to you by trusted messenger. -Liz_ **

 

Mycroft sent a text back. 

 

**_Thank you. Mission pushed back. Will inform you of dates. Please be on standby. -MH_ **

 

**_Feliz Navidad Mike -Liz_ **

 

**_Happy Christmas Elizabeth.- MH_ **

 

A picture came over, a woman with long brown hair, curling around her face. A huge smile made her look as if the photo had been taken as she was mid-laugh. Next to her a thin, tall young man with a matching smile on his face. His reddish hair a mop of messy curls. 

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


“Come to bed.” Mycroft pulled the covers over and patted Gregory’s side. 

 

“I am. I just wanted to make sure the alarm was on.” His new habit was to double check all the locks and alarms before they retired. “Okay, all set.” Greg climbed into bed wearing nothing but his pants. Music drifted across the hall from the new jukebox, Mycroft placed the song as ‘Oh Holy Night.’

 

“Did you have a good day?” Mycroft asked carefully. 

 

“What, you mean having your brother flip a card table and shower us with little tokens and whatnots? Yeah, it was great.” Greg laughed loudly and snuggled closer to Mycroft. He pressed his cold feet against Mycroft’s legs. 

 

“Let’s always do this.” Mycroft took Gregory’s hand. “Spend Christmas doing nothing. No more gala’s or missions. Just family on Christmas day.” 

 

“I would love that, Choux. I have enough seniority I think to pass on homicides if they happen. Unless it’s horrible, but I’m sure your brother can sort it out in a hurry. He’d probably consider it a perfect gift.” 

 

“Probably.” Mycroft hummed, waiting for the right moment. He had been waiting for the perfect time to pour his heart out for three days. 

 

“When I was on the plane, it was terrible. I had a collapse of my loci, which I had never experienced before. I wanted to tell you that in my mind you are my lighthouse.” 

 

“Will you just cancel this mission with John and stay safe? I can’t stand how close it came. I have been jealous and thrilled that Elizabeth saved you.” 

 

“I am glad she was able to. I believe that Moriarty didn’t plan for her. Most people don’t. But you know this is my job.” 

 

“No more for tonight Myc. Let’s just lay here, and you can tell read me A Christmas Carol from memory.” Greg helped Mycroft scoot down so they could lay side by side. 

 

“I hate that you now expect this.” Mycroft didn’t hate it at all. 

 

“Tell me a story, Choux. Or I may get up and have leftovers.” Greg nuzzled into Mycroft's neck and waited for the story to begin. 

 

And so Mycroft began to recite Dickens, just as he used to when Sherlock was little and still expected a story before bed. 

 

The east wind was going to blow, and it was going to be bitter. Mycroft could only hope they would weather it together. With that one last thought of the mission that loomed on the horizon, Mycroft moved closer to his husband and ignored the pain in his legs. Tonight it was Christmas, and he embraced the warmth and joy of being here precisely where he wanted to be most of all. 

  
  



End file.
